


Kings in the Corner

by Nelfears



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Drunken Kissing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Intimacy, M/M, Short, Worgen Genn, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-29
Updated: 2018-09-29
Packaged: 2019-07-18 22:15:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16127837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nelfears/pseuds/Nelfears
Summary: On one of his nightly rounds, Genn Greymane comes across the honorable King of Stormwind in one of his less-honorable moments.





	Kings in the Corner

**Author's Note:**

> This is pretty darn old. I'll finish it... eventually.... maybe.

It’s happened before.

Genn Greymane has wandered the dark stone halls of Stormwind Keep in the night, prowling along empty corridors. He is familiar with the rough-shod stone walls, the way they dip into dark alcoves and tuck into sharp turns. He is familiar with the air; the scents, its weight. Since turning, he finds himself much more acutely aware of his surroundings, his human instincts sometimes overshadowed by something fresher, more animalistic. 

He too is familiar with the natural sounds of the castle at night; finds solace in their consistency. Pacing along the battlements, wind whipping his ruff of gray hair, he hears the distant hubbub of Stormwind’s trade district, alive with negotiation and the clink of coin changing hands. Angling his lupine ears, he can just make out the sound of wild worgen howling in Elwynn Forest’s outskirts, and the low chuffing of sleeping wild creatures. Near the royal kitchens he hears clattering pots and pans, hurried orders in Pandaren, the characteristically jarring laugh of a dwarven chef. 

What he hasn’t heard before on his nightly rounds is the deep, bellowing wail of a man in uncontrollable grief.

He hears it tonight.  
__

He’s making his usual rounds, a habitual check-up of the keep: round the gardens, slip along the halls, stalk the battlements. Though he is a guest in the keep, Greymane can’t help but feel some responsibility in securing its wellbeing—the Wrynns were kind to allow he and his people refuge there, and he felt compelled to do what little he could to help them in return. Hence his nightly walks, a quick check-up of the area. 

He knew the guards were stationed for a reason, that they were trained to the teeth and that members of SI:7 patrolled the battlements nigh-constantly. Nonetheless, he makes his rounds, comforted by the routine. 

However, something is amiss tonight. He’s in one of the long, elaborate hallways near the throne room, and he senses it before he hears it. The sound is uncharacteristic of the Keep, entirely new to him, and that alone sets him on edge. Genn swivels his ears this way and that, and he can just make it out: a muffled wail. 

Immediately he’s on high alert. The source of the sound can’t be too far. As he follows it, his footsteps echoing off the marble flooring, his hackles raise with the realization: the sound is coming from the royal bedroom. 

Greymane steels himself and pushes the heavy door open, brows drawn low in trepidation. It takes a moment for his eyes to seek out the King among his trappings, but he can hear the man’s rattling inhales from where he stands. He soon spies Varian sprawled loosely over his bed, limbs askew. For a moment, Genn is struck by how small the man seems when out of his royal armor. Gone are the extravagant pauldrons and chestplate, leaving nothing but a perfectly mortal man, vulnerable and little and astoundingly human. 

The second thing Genn notices: the fingers of Varian’s left hand are stained a pinkish red. Genn is afraid for a moment he’s hurt himself. He’s starting forward when his boot makes contact with an upturned wine glass and sends it skittering noisily to shatter against the wall. That explains the staining on his hand, then; and from his closer vantage point Genn can make out more blotches of wine on the blankets. 

“Wrynn,” he calls briefly. (‘Wrynn’ was good, he thought-- Impersonal enough to keep a comfortable distance, but not too cold.)

Varian does not move. The only signs that he’s conscious are his deep, shuddering breaths and soft grunts as he shifts among the blankets. Concern swiftly overtakes trepidation and Genn steps closer cautiously. His heavy leather boots thump against the stone floor once, twice, three times as he crosses the room, and he is by the bed in a moment. 

“Wrynn,” he tries again, quietly, and there is no response from the behemoth of a man laid out before him. Up close, Varian looks disheveled, and Genn can keenly smell the wine on him. He’s certainly been drinking, which seems uncharacteristic of him—or does it? The whole experience is forcing Genn to realize how little he knows of the Alliance’s leader beyond his kingly persona.

“Wrynn.” Louder and firmer this time. Still no answer, but Varian is groaning softly now, burrowing his face into a damp pillow. His dark hair is undone, tangling with itself in the bedsheets as Varian turns over with great effort. 

Along with a sense of intrusion, as if he’s seeing something he shouldn’t be, Genn feels a twinge of sympathy for the man. Seeing the outwardly fearless leader of the mighty Alliance reduced to a heaving wreck is both strange and sad. He pushes the feeling down, telling himself his curiosity is nothing but a professional concern for his leader’s wellbeing, and reaches over the messy bundle of bedding to jostle the king’s shoulder.

At his touch, Varian startles, big shoulders jumping up as if pulled by a string. Genn laughs at that—the burly, bad king spooked like a little bird—and it rumbles out of him deep and dark like wet charcoal. That earns him a look, Varian’s eyes flashing reprehensibly up at him, but he soothes it away with an assuring rub of his hand. Wrynn seems placated, rolling his broad shoulder into the touch mindlessly, and Genn again feels as if he’s crossing a line. 

Their relationship leading up to this point has been nothing but stoically professional, all brief conversations and curt nods. And now he is alone in the Stormwind king’s chambers with him, gently rubbing his shoulders while the big man heaves out wet sobs. It’s intimate, it’s new, it’s a little strange, yet—and Genn realizes this with a thrill of excitement—he’s more than alright with it.

Good company is hard to come by in times of strife, and Genn is no stranger to solitude. In recent times, he muses, companionship has been rare: Liam is dead, his people ravaged, his city lost. Something lonely in him feels a kinship with Wrynn, though, and it’s this very thing that makes him feel obliged to help in the little ways he can. Like a seamstress pulling her needle to draw together two pieces of muslin, so too are he and Wrynn drawn together by their losses, and before he knows it he is completely overwhelmed by an unfamiliar feeling.

He leans in and presses his mouth lightly against Varian’s. His mouth is warm and wet and tastes like tears. 

In for a penny, in for a pound, Genn decides, and curls a hand into the thick hair just behind Wrynn’s temple.

Varian, to his honor, takes it like a warrior. At the first contact, he utters a small noise—were he not kissing Lo’gosh, Genn might describe it as a whimper—but he’s otherwise silent. And a moment later, he is kissing back—just a small turn of his shaggy head, to slot their mouths together better, but Genn notices. Inside his leather boots, his toes curl.


End file.
